


Less Than Whole

by Thalius



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Shallura Week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 07:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14374191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: They are not whole, neither of them, but they find a piece of themselves in each other.





	Less Than Whole

**Author's Note:**

> It somehow slipped my mind to upload a fic I wrote almost two years ago, but I'm diving headlong back into Voltron (and even further into Shallura), so this is a (very, very late) drabble for the Shallura Week 2016 on tumblr, written for the Day 1 Discovery prompt.

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find comfort in the sleepless nights spent together staring at the stars through the viewport of the lounge.

"It's lonely, sometimes," she whispers into her drink. Their conversations are disjointed and punctuated by long silences in between, but not for a lack of things to say—they just need someone to listen to them and sit with them quietly, not respond or offer solutions. "Looking out into space and knowing that there is nobody else like Coran or I out there."

He looks down at his right arm, steel and unfeeling and not entirely his to control, and thinks he knows something about what she's feeling.

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find satisfaction in closing the debriefing of a day's mission together when all the other Paladins have changed out of uniform and gone to the mess for dinner.

"It's a start," he reassures her with a tentative hand on her shoulder, her eyes clouded over with worry. "The only way we can win this thing is one day at a time."

She smiles at him, and his heart swells when he sees some of the tension leave her face. "You're right, Shiro. Thank you."

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find an escape in drinking just a little too much nunvill and giggling like young fools while lying up high in the rafters of the engine room.

Allura flips onto her stomach and presses her cheek to the grate to look down at the pulsing crystal powering the ship below. "Can you smell that?" she asks him, wiggling her slim fingers through the holes of the metal grate and holding onto it like an anchor.

"Smells like burning stone," he says with a frown. "And salt."

"Smells like home," she corrects him, and gives him a sad smile.

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find something to wake up for every morning in their intertwining routines.

"Tea," Shiro says in greeting, as he does every morning, passing her a mug smelling of mint and ginger as she enters the kitchens. It's early, so early that everyone else is still blinking sleepily into their breakfast bowls and rubbing at their eyes.

"Paperwork," Allura responds in kind, trading him her holopad for his outstretched hot drink. He reads the reports for the day's duties while she sips her tea and watches the Paladins slowly work themselves awake.

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find peace one night in a bottle of dangerously empty nunvill while up in the rafters again, when there's no one around to force them to bury and ignore the ache of need in their chests.

"Allura," he breathes, and she moves so close that their noses touch. "We shouldn't—"

She presses a finger to his lips, and he can't find the strength to feel guilty about the surge of relief that sparks through him at her interruption. "No talk of tomorrow. No responsibilities. Just now." Then she closes the distance and he all but melts into her warmth and solidarity. They spend the night in the company of each other, and when he finally closes his eyes with her curled into his side, only sleep is there to greet him.

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find a reason to come back to the ship when the battle is costly and the victory hollow in the look of relief they share in the hangar.

"I thought—" he keeps repeating, but can never finish the sentence. His thoughts are not words; they are ideas of empty beds too big for one person. They are nightmares he can no longer seek solace from in her arms. They are lonely and brutal and cold, and he can't shape them into words he can voice. "I thought—"

"I'm here," she responds with to combat the panic in his eyes, cupping his face and not bothering to hide the touch from the others for a moment. Her face is covered in soot, her suit torn and her hair slick with soil and blood, but her skin is still warm, alive, and  _here_. "I'm back."

They are not whole, neither of them, but they find a piece of themselves in the strength of their embrace.

"I can't promise I'll return," he says into her hair one night, holding her close. Maybe if he pulls her close enough, they'll forge into one and then they'll never have to break away again.

"But you can promise to try," she murmurs against the skin of his shoulder. She's trembling, but he can't tell if it's from rage or sorrow—rage that there are no certainties between them, and sorrow that they came together in a time when everything is trying to rip them apart.

"Always."

She nods fiercely and runs a hand up his right arm. He can't feel her fingers on the metal, but the warmth of her touch makes the prosthetic seem more like a part of himself. "Always."


End file.
